


the gargoyle

by bchekov



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Character Study-ish, Drabble, Drinking, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Phase 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 11:24:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10740723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bchekov/pseuds/bchekov
Summary: he is growing impatient. there’s unsung words stuck in his throat, a bassline that shakes his entire core, but it doesn’t transition to paper; barely even to coherent thought. all he knows is that he’s buzzing, possibly from the deadly mix of alcohol and drugs, and he needs a way to let it out.





	the gargoyle

the bottle weighs heavy in his hand and the pencil in the other even heavier; the paper beneath it is stained and slightly crumbled, the chicken scrawl covering it jumbled and distorted. he can relate. the cigarette hanging loosely between cracked lips wiggles when he sighs and smoke mingles with his breath. for a moment he thinks he can see a figure in it; limbs unrealistically long, body twisting in ways his own could never dream to, and it faintly reminds him of 2d. it dissipates and leaves him on a half-formed memory he thought- wished- he’d forgotten.

he doesn’t know how to feel about that so he decides not to and takes another swig of whiskey. his vision is blurry at best and the darkness of the room is not helping, so he uses that as an excuse and leaves it at that.

there’s an unease in his chest, different from the constant burning yet all the same. It’s nothing he hasn’t felt before, years ago the first time he slept in a cheap motel, and it unsettles him, almost catches him off-guard, but nothing really does these days. He wheezes. shallow and harsh- like him, he thinks. the glow of the cigarette has already reached the filter and he is moments away from burning his mouth when it goes out. he parts his chapped lips and lets it fall to the floor among the others. trembling fingers start rolling a new one, if only to keep them occupied.

he is growing impatient. there’s unsung words stuck in his throat, a bassline that shakes his entire core, but it doesn’t transition to paper, barely even to coherent thought. all he knows is that he’s buzzing, possibly from the deadly mix of alcohol and drugs, and he needs a way to let it out. 

so he takes another swig. it almost hurts, suffocating him. ‘that’s how you know it’s good stuff’ his father informs him from the back of his mind. his trembling worsens and when he looks into the nearly empty bottle he wishes he could be washed away by the tide outside. shaking his head, he tucks his hands into his pockets and gets up to leave.

the half-finished lyrics lays forgotten, there for him to throw away in the morning. (he will forget it exists for a month, until he finds it one day, stained with whiskey and tears. he leaves it for another couple of weeks before he decides to finish it. in the end it becomes something personal, a reflection of himself; a frozen heart, routines and distant looks. when asked though, we will tell them he thought it sounded nice. they won’t believe him.)


End file.
